very, very, old. Massive thunderheads have swept the Gila Bend
desert hollows and the Flagstaff peaks, pounding out an old, old,
rhythm for millions of years. Echoes and silence meet in the great
cliff dwellings, while a persistent Colorado River continues
to wear away into the high western plateaus. As you gaze back in
time from the rocky edge of the Grand Canyon, you hear the wind
whisper, feel the prickly sun warm your shoulders, the hawks beckon,
a lone squirrel peels a pecan shell lazily, and the ancient
teachings, the old, old, memories reach your consciousness, and
whisper.... "Welcome home...."
place is not an ordinary place. This place called Arizona is a
mercado. An entire state where on a daily basis the artisans and
vendors bring their time-honored crafts to the center of the square
for you. Marvel with us! Come with us to peek through the rusty,
creaky, gateways in Jerome. Sniff sawdust, and old cedar aromas.
Come nibble fresh
jams, and cheesecake delights. Marvel as we do when quiet, masterful
fingers find the horseman in the mound of clay, the matron Tamalera
in her kitchen making tortillas. Marvel as we do when the weaver
romps with her sheep and knows their next shearing will adorn your
beds and tables. Marvel as we do how the masterful old table comes
from old, fallen planks of a bygone Western "gold fever" era. Marvel
as we do as you hold a Native American silver amulet in the palm of
your hand, and you feel its story etch into your soul.